


Courage in the Face of What Might Come

by fanfoolishness (LoonyLupin), LoonyLupin



Series: A Pocketful of Eezo: Xia Shepard x Tali'Zorah vas Normandy [7]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Crew as Family, Gen, Normandy-SR2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 03:11:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10266554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/fanfoolishness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/LoonyLupin
Summary: The Normandy SR-2 hums with activity.  The ship's crew finds friendship and family while staring down the void.





	

Karin’s hands tremble.  She reviews her supplies, stocks of dextro and levo medigel, smart bandages, carefully curated pharmaceuticals, microfactured braces and splints.  She’s seen a lot of trauma in her time, and the reports crossing her email make her shiver.  They won’t all make it. **  
**

She glances up.  Greg enters the med-bay, two coffees in hand.  She affords him a small smile.  It might be the last mission the galaxy ever undertakes, she muses, but the hot coffee and a friend’s nudge against her shoulder make her mood a little brighter.

* * *

Samantha’s just a civilian, really; or at least it’s what she keeps telling Commander Shepard.  This war’s too big for her.  But sometimes Samantha finds herself meeting it head-on, data streaming past her so quickly she can scarce keep up, and she deals her damage the best she can.  Maybe they’ll win, knowing some of what they know, and some of what they know is thanks to her.

Diana finds her in the mess, poring over scraps of comms and data.  “Hey,” Diana offers. “I’ve got something that might come in handy.”  Her omni-tool flickers under the fluorescent lights.

“That’s – that’s not insignificant,” Samantha gasps after a cursory review.  “This will help _tremendously_.”  

Diana just smiles and shrugs, the dimple in her cheek showing.  “We’re in it together, right?”

* * *

Jeff’s never been one to rely on other people.  Oh, sure, he knows how to play nice, if he’s really got to; it’s just he doesn’t usually _need_ to.  His hands and his eyes and his gut usually take care of that well enough.

EDI’s something different, though.  An AI, an android, a synthetic, whatever you call her, she means to help, and he knows it.  He’s pretty fond of her, actually, though that’s none of anyone’s business.

His hands fly over the controls, but he knows beneath his touch, EDI’s there, ready to save the day if he’s not enough.  The feeling fills him up, somehow, a brightness against the deep dark of the space beyond.

* * *

Numbers, scenarios, a million different runtimes and calibrations, a finely tuned symphony.  Gabby relishes it, grateful to be back on the Normandy, back to kicking ass with a good team at her side.  

Once a week she and Kenneth, Adams and Tali, gather in the lounge.  EDI makes sure it’s reserved for them.  Kenneth pours drinks and Adams dutifully points out what a terrible bartender Kenneth is.  Kenneth is always careful, though, to make sure there’s enough turian brandy for Tali, and that it doesn’t get mixed in with the Earth stocks.  Adams makes sure there’s plenty of snacks, Gabby cuts the cards, and Tali usually cleans them out, taunting them gleefully in Khelish.

“Engineers for life,” Kenneth slurs late one night, holding his hand out in the middle of the poker table, and Gabby reaches out to cover it.  Then there’s Tali’s hand on hers, strange but welcome, and Adams’ large, calloused hand covering all of them.

“For _life_ ,” they chorus.

* * *

Sometimes Liara joins Kaidan in the starboard viewing lounge, relishing the stars.  It does not do well for her for to focus too tightly on any one thing; gazing out at planets and nebulae remind her to stay aware of the big picture.  Kaidan is contemplative, too; she remembers him always being quiet in the old days, but she observes him more closely now.  He observes back.

“You’ve changed a lot,” he offers one day.  “I remember when you were almost… innocent.”

“Perhaps,” she says, tilting her head to one side.  “And you were not?”

He chuckles.  “All right, Shadow Broker.  Maybe we were all a little different then.”

She’s quiet, standing near the window, awash in starlight.  “Perhaps it’s good to remember those parts of ourselves,” she says.

“A little trust goes a long way, these days,” says Kaidan.  “That’s true.”

“It’s good you’re here,” she says, eyes wide on the stars.  “The galaxy needs people like you.”

“Like us.”

* * *

Javik finds Garrus in the armory, stripping down his assault rifle.  Javik approves.  It does not do well for a soldier to forget to respect his weapons.

“You fight ably, turian,” says Javik, turning his attention to his own weapon.  He is swift and efficient in modifying it for the coming mission.  

“It’s come in handy,” says Garrus.  Javik detects a note of sarcasm.  He does not understand why the primitives rely so heavily on this mode of humor, but it is a harmless eccentricity.

“Do you think we shall defeat the Reapers?”

The turian releases a _hmmm_ noise, hands steady on his weapon.  “I think we’ve got the best damn chance anyone’s ever had.”

“It shall have to do,” says Javik.  It seems the primitives are less hopeless than he had once feared.

* * *

Sometimes James and Esteban volley insults across the half-deserted hangar, a good way to pass the time between almost getting shot on the ground and almost getting shot out of the sky.  

Sometimes it’s mezcal in their quarters, late nights talking about nothing in particular, watching stupid vids, listening to Earth music and remembering what they’re fighting for.  James likes adventure flicks.  Esteban likes terrible comedies.  Once in a while they find something that meets in the middle.

Sometimes it’s shore leave, loud music in Purgatory, neither of them looking to hook up with anyone but just enjoying the general shit show.  It’s good to see people moving in a way that has nothing to do with a gun.

Sometimes it’s Steve quiet and missing Robert, and sometimes it’s James quiet and missing his abuela, and it’s just… it’s damn good to know someone else is there to listen to the silence.

* * *

Shepard rips open the box on his cereal ration, sprinkling fortified Tas-T-flakes into his bowl.  It’s not actually tasty, but it’s serviceable, especially with milk from Sur’Kesh; tastes a million times better than the stuff he gets from Earth.  He doesn’t want to know what’s in it.  Doesn’t want to spoil the magic.

Ensign Copeland sits across from him, looking deep in thought.  Shepard knows that look.  It’s the _oh shit I’m sitting with the Commander_ look.  If the sweat on Copeland’s brow hadn’t given it away, the way he tried to coolly eat his oatmeal with a butter knife would have.

“At ease, Ensign,” says Shepard.

“Yes, sir,” says Copeland gratefully.

“How are you doing?”

“Me?  I’m fine, sir.  A little – a little starstruck, to be honest, but fine, sir.”  

Shepard can’t really blame him.  The guy’s crew consists of two human Spectres, the Shadow Broker, a quarian Admiral, a turian advisor, the last Prothean, an unshackled AI, and the best pilot in the galaxy.  To name a few.  It’d be a bit much for anyone.

“S’all right.  And it’d be fine if you weren’t fine, either,” says Shepard.  “This war’s going to get worse before it gets better.  If you’re worried, you aren’t alone.”  He tries to hide a sigh.  They’ll win… won’t they?  They have to.  There is no other alternative.

“Are… are you all right, Commander?” asks Copeland, stuttering over the question, his eyes bright.

Shepard considers.

_Ash.  Mordin.  Thane.  Legion. **Earth.**_

“The war’s hard on all of us, Ensign Copeland,” says Shepard.  His mouth quirks up at one side, twisting a little.

Copeland looks down at his oatmeal and tries to hide that he had been attempting to eat it with a knife.  He’s painfully earnest.  “Well, I just want you to know – me and Campbell and Westmoreland, you know, we think we’ve got a real shot at this thing.  And that’s because of you, Commander.  But if it gets rough – just… make sure to take care of yourself, Commander, all right?”

Shepard takes another bite of cereal.  It helps to smooth over the sudden lump in his throat.

“Sure,” he says, swallowing.  He’s suddenly grateful.  “I will.  Thanks, Copeland.”

“Sir.”

“At ease.”

Later Shepard watches the fish in his quarters, eels and jellyfish, darters and sunfish.  They streak across the water like shooting stars, brilliant in their scales and finery, dancing in a carefully orchestrated whirlwind.  One zigs, another zags; three school here, seven there.  They never collide, only collaborate.

He lifts a hand, holding it against the cool glass, condensation beading under his palm.  

He grins.

“Yeah,” he says to the fish.  “I think we’re gonna make it.”

**Author's Note:**

> found family yeaaaaah


End file.
